


Look At Me

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Mirrors, Unbeta'd, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-04
Updated: 2010-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's eyes meet Dean's in the mirror, wide open and nowhere to hide, and deep inside him a tiny voice crows, <i>yes</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look At Me

**Author's Note:**

> Mirror porn. Written and set post-season 5, disregarding season 6.

Sam doesn't look in mirrors anymore.

It started out as a subconscious thing; he kept remembering his one-sided conversations with Lucifer, seeing his own face with that self-satisfied triumphant smirk all over it interspersed with spatters of blood, and the memory made him sick. So he just … stopped looking. Avoided catching his own eye when he cleaned his teeth in the morning; glanced away when he passed a particularly reflective window. Now he flinches away if he sees so much as his own shadow captured in glass.

The only exception to the rule is when he's letting off some steam. He keeps a small hand mirror in the bottom of his duffel, brings it out on the increasingly rare occasions Dean goes out to hook up. Sam likes the way his hand looks when he's getting himself off, enjoys seeing it from a different angle. Sometimes he'll prop the mirror against the bedstead, if there is one, and spread his legs wide, get both hands in on the action. It should feel perverted, shameful, but it's the only time he can stand to see any part of himself reflected. Compared to everything else that's happened, he figures, it's hardly worth a blush.

Only problem is, he doesn't get to do it very often these days. Dean is less interested in casual sex than he's ever been, so most nights he's either back after an hour or two or he doesn't go out at all. Sam appreciates not having to feign sleep while Dean fucks in the next bed, but it means his own opportunities are limited to quick jerk-off sessions in the shower. He's not against the idea of hooking up—has done his fair share over the years—but the awkwardness he always feels afterward isn't worth the release. So the mirror stays packed away, and Sam gets his morning orgasm by rote.

Then they end up on the outskirts of Atlantic City and Dean invites himself to an all-night poker game to hustle some cash. Sam sees him off at dusk, watching the Impala's taillights vanish into the distance, the growl of the engine melding into the constant drone of the interstate. Then he locks the door and draws the blinds, and turns to contemplate the room.

The beds are sturdy wooden four-posters, dark and heavy. They look incongruous in the bland space of the room, but Sam couldn't give a damn about the décor. He circles the foot of his bed, avoiding the wall-mounted mirror out of habit, and rummages in his duffel. His cock is already rising against his zipper, excitement at the thought of indulging himself adding an extra zing. He palms himself briefly and bites his lip at the jolt of pleasure, sighing in relief when his other hand encounters cool glass.

He starts off slow: sitting on the side of the bed, barefoot and shirtless, slowly inching down the zipper. Watching in the mirror is like watching porn, only better; he only has to think of what he'd like to see next, and he does it—the best kind of instant gratification. Sam inhales sharply as he watches his hand delve into the open vee of denim, pulling his cock out into the open. His boxers are bunched uncomfortably beneath his balls, but he barely notices that, too busy watching his fingers playing along the hard length, feeling the thrill of it go straight to his gut. His other hand shakes momentarily and he steadies his wrist on one knee, angling the mirror for an unobstructed view.

He fondles himself slowly, revelling in the ability to take his time. His cock is dripping a little pre-come already; he gathers it up and spreads it around the head, rasping his calloused thumb underneath with a shudder, tracing the thick vein all the way to the root. His balls are drawn up tight and hard, aching; he pays them some attention, rolling them between long fingers, rubbing behind, gasping at the sudden shock of how good it feels. His knees are splayed wide as he can get them but it's not enough; his jeans are constricting, and Sam thinks it's time to move things to the next level.

The jeans and boxers come off, and the mirror finds a resting place against the foot of the bed. Sam uses all the pillows from his bed and steals the ones from Dean's, building himself a support to lean against. He gets a subversive kick out of knowing Dean will sleep on these pillows, all unknowing that Sam used them to prop himself up to get a good view of getting himself off.

Settled in and comfortable, Sam leans back and puts his feet on the footboard, knees spread wide. It's perfect; the mirror is angled just right, letting him see everything from hipbone to ass. Sam moans appreciatively, watches through half-lidded eyes as his hands slide down over his chest and stomach to start stroking for real. He gets right into it, one hand playing with his balls, rolling and tugging, while the other makes a tight circle and feeds his cock into it, nice and slow. It's a hell of a show, if Sam does say so himself: his cock is red and glistening, sliding wetly through his fingers like a well-greased piston, and it feels amazing, tight and hot. He's hard pressed to keep his eyes open but it's too good to miss, seeing this part of himself honest and open and unsullied, nothing but pure animal pleasure in it. He tightens his fingers and arches his back, thrusting into his grip while his other hand plays lower, pressing hard against his perineum and shooting little jolts of electric want along his spine.

Sam lets his fingers slide back, circling around his hole. He's never played much here, not at all since Jess, but he lets one fingertip edge inside just for the hell of it. It's dry; he swipes through the pre-come dripping from the head of his cock and tries again, the slide a little easier this time, and yeah, that's good. He likes this. The view is shadowy and vague, though, and that's frustrating; he widens his stance and tilts his hips, trying to see, but the mirror's too small.

A flash of movement to the left catches his eye; the mirror on the wall, full-length and perfectly positioned, if he shuffled around ninety degrees. Sam fights down his instinctive recoil, still stroking his cock while he debates the pros and cons of facing himself in an actual mirror while getting the chance to _see_. Put like that, it's not much of a dilemma, and a minute later Sam's on the floor with his back against the bed, hips propped up on a cushion and his knees around his ears.

This is better. This is so, so much better. He's got a hand teasing at his cock and a finger half-buried in his ass, tentative at first and then gaining confidence as his body remembers the feel. He hits his prostate and jerks, that jolting want felt again inside-out and stronger, and strokes his fingertip hard over the gland. Things start moving along real quick after that; one finger becomes two becomes three, pre-come and spit all he's got to work with because _fuck_ if he's stopping long enough to get the lube, and Sam's got one knee bent sideways on the floor and the other clamped tight in the bend of his arm while he fingers and jacks himself ruthlessly, eyes fixed on the mirror, when the door clicks open and Dean walks in.

"Dude, I think I got cursed or something, because I could not finish a single fucking hand—"

The world becomes crystalline, sharp and clear and balanced on the edge of a single breath. Sam's eyes meet Dean's in the mirror, wide open and nowhere to hide, and deep inside him a tiny voice crows, _yes_.

The door closes quietly behind Dean's back. He doesn't move, doesn't take his eyes off Sam for what feels like an eternity. Sam holds his breath and waits, unmoving, for the balance to tip one way or the other.

Dean lets out a shuddering breath and drops the keys on the table. He kicks off his boots, shrugs out of jacket and shirt, then stalks across the ten feet of space separating them. His t-shirt is old and worn, clinging softly to his body; the jeans even more so, moulded perfectly to the dips and curves of his hips and ass and thighs. Sam watches his brother move toward him with liquid grace, mouth dry with shock and want, twitches hard when one of his fingertips curls inside. Dean sees it and misses half a step, eyes burning into Sam's with enough heat to make him break a fresh sweat.

The impasse is broken when Dean gets to his side. He folds to the floor to kneel in front of Sam's widespread thighs, his own spread as if to match. Sam can't breathe; he feels like he's going to explode, one tiny movement all it would take to send him right over the edge. He holds Dean's gaze, heart racing, and waits.

For the longest time, Dean just looks. He's blocking the mirror so Sam can't see, but he feels like he can anyway; everything Dean is feeling is showing on his face loud and clear, nothing to mask or obfuscate it. Dean's whole body is a mirror to Sam right now, and he can't take his eyes away. Then Dean reaches out with a single finger, sliding it soft and light around the place where Sam's hand is half-buried deep, and the moment shatters.

"This what you do when you're alone, Sam? Lock the doors and get naked, watch yourself get off in your own private peep show?"

Dean's voice is guttural, almost unrecognisable. He keeps sliding that finger around and around, looming over Sam and giving off heat like a furnace.

"I." Sam licks his lips. "Yes. Sometimes. Not usually—this."

Dean nods, keeps staring, finger circling in that maddening touch that's starting to drive Sam insane. He trembles just the slightest bit, tense from maintaining his position, and that seems to snap Dean out of whatever trance he's in. He rears back and reverse-glides smoothly to his feet, offers a hand to Sam as if this situation is nothing out of the ordinary. Sam takes it without thinking, stumbles on his way up—his knees are stiff, ass going numb despite the pillows—and falls into Dean's body, his other hand sliding free unnoticed. Before he can apologise or move back, Dean catches his arms in an iron-hard grip, draws him up in a slow hard slide, every inch of them grinding together until Sam's on his feet and Dean's mouth is a bare half-inch away.

He doesn't get a chance to react. Dean spins him around, back to chest, one arm banded around his ribs, hand spread wide over his heart. Dean's other hand dives down over his stomach and hips, the barest of hesitations before covering his cock and giving it a long, rough stroke. Sam's knees threaten to give way but he locks them tight, eyes wide and fixed on Dean's hand on his cock, a show like nothing he's ever seen before. Feeling it, watching it happen, shudders wracking his body with every touch of Dean's weathered, competent hands—he'd never let himself even dream of this.

"Enjoying the show, Sam?" Dean's voice is deep, right next to his ear, rumbling through Sam's chest to fill him. "You should be. It's fucking pretty. My hand looks good on your cock." He bites Sam's earlobe, soothes it with a lick. "Thinking I might keep it there. Or maybe it could have some fun with your ass." A sucking kiss to his neck this time, deep and stinging. "You want that? My fingers inside you?"

Sam brings up one hand to cover Dean's on his chest, fingers tangling. He curves the other around the back of Dean's neck, offering himself up without saying a word. His thighs widen of their own accord, Dean's leg slotting between to drag roughly against him, Sam panting and keeping his eyes locked with Dean's in the mirror.

"So fucking hot," Dean breathes. "Look at you all spread out for me, getting off on watching yourself. If I'd known—" He cuts himself off with a sharp breath, fingers clenching around Sam's on his chest. "Open wide," he orders, his free hand sliding up Sam's body with a lingering touch. "Gotta slick you up again, make you nice and wet."

Sam swallows a whimper and sucks Dean's fingers into his mouth, savours his own dull-bitter taste and a hint of gun oil and soap. He lets his tongue wander everywhere, mouth watering, and when Dean draws his hand back it's dripping and gleaming and Dean's breath is coming fast and hard.

"Jesus, Sam," he grinds out, pressing hard into Sam's back. "You gonna suck my cock like that?"

Sam's knees _do_ give way at that; Dean's arm locks tight around his chest and keeps him upright, and he knees Sam's legs further apart. Sam gets his balance under him again and shifts, his wide stance bringing his height down and his ass all but demanding Dean's touch. He still can't believe this is happening, keeps wondering if he's going to wake up or hear Dean start talking with Lucifer's voice—but even if that happened, he doesn't think he'd be able to stop.

"Dean," he rasps, hoarse and desperate. "Fuck— _please_." He humps back against Dean's hip, unable to articulate better than that. It feels like he's been on a knife's edge for hours, and he just wants to _come_.

"Shh." Dean's mouth on his neck again, across the nape this time, angling down to nip sharply at his collarbone. "I'll get you there, don't worry. S'gonna look so hot, man. So fucking hot."

He stops talking and gets down to it, spit-wet fingers parting Sam's ass from behind. Sam bites his lip and uses his free hand to open himself wider, swallowing a moan when Dean's fingers breach him, sure and smooth. Dean goes deep, scissoring and curling his fingertips, and Sam feels his grin against the side of his face when he hits Sam's prostate and Sam lets out a choked cry.

"Gotcha," he says, and starts up a punishingly good rhythm that has Sam struggling to breathe.

Time stretches out, loses definition and shape. There is only Sam and Dean and the mirror, Dean's fingers spearing him to the heart and Dean's eyes burning straight into his soul, and Sam can't escape either, doesn't even want to try. His thighs are straining to hold his position, his upper body resting wholly against Dean for support, his cock neglected and leaking all over the place, hard enough to pound the proverbial nail. His nervous system is awash in pleasure, sharp and merciless, endless waves that follow every stroke of Dean's hand.

Dean is right; it _does_ look hot, the two of them together like this; Sam's nakedness against Dean's fully clothed body, Dean's arm clamped around him like a sign of ownership, other hand owning him in the best possible way. Sam struggles to keep his eyes open, wanting to watch every moment, take it all in. Dean's face is flushed and sweating, eyes a brilliant green, gaze locked on Sam so tight it's almost physical. Sam lets his own gaze wander down his own body, takes in his wanton stance, his cock hard and aching, every muscle tightening and releasing with the movements of Dean's hand inside him. It's everything he ever wanted to see in a mirror, everything he feared he never would.

Sam arches his back and tries to tilt further, get Dean deeper; Dean's free hand slips from his chest to his cock and jerks it hard, one-two-three, and Sam's entire body jolts in reaction. His orgasm rips through him, white spatters painting his belly and thighs, the back of Dean's hand, his heart thundering and his ass clenching hard as Dean keeps rubbing him on the inside until his legs turn to jelly.

"Stop," Sam gasps eventually, "God, stop, I can't—" and Dean draws his hand free, drags Sam back to fall onto the bed in a sated mess of limbs.

It's quiet for a while. Sam feels the bed dip beside him, knows Dean is watching while he comes down. It's a soothing feeling; he reaches out a hand, searching, feels Dean grip it tightly. When his heart slows down and he can breathe without gasping, Sam rolls onto his back and opens his eyes. Dean's right there, checking, assessing, and Sam feels unreasonably comforted.

"So," Dean says after a minute. "That, uh."

"Was awesome," Sam finishes. "Thank you."

Dean's gaze becomes incredulous. " _Thank you_? That's all you've got to say?"

Sam grins up at him, loose and inviting. "Well, I could suck your cock instead if you want."

He only has to count to three before there's the sound of Dean's belt hitting the floor.


End file.
